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“That’s right, but mostly for belly ailments—sour stomach, women’s complaints, stuff like that.”
Sapphire stopped at the kitchen door. “Yes, but did she teach you how to make up a…” She glanced around to be sure no one was behind them, and began to whisper into Myra’s ear.
22
“What on earth are you going to do with it?” Myra asked as she held the kitchen door open for Sapphire, who was carrying a tray of soup bowls. One of the footmen led the way as he carried a monstrous porcelain soup tureen. Mrs. Dedrick had just announced that Mr. Thixton and his guests had adjourned in the dining room and the turtle soup must be served at once.
“I don’t know,” Sapphire whispered, hurrying behind Myra. “I’m half tempted to dump it in the soup and give it to them all.”
“No, you mustn’t,” Myra gasped. “Then they would know soon enough it was us.”
Sapphire chuckled under her breath. “I’m not going to give it to them all, although Mr. Thixton deserves it, being such a fool when it comes to Clarice.”
“But she’s his friend’s daughter,” Myra said in Blake’s defense. “He’s bein’ such a gentleman.”
Sapphire frowned. “Sounds like you’re half in love with him yourself.”
Myra giggled. “Ain’t we all?” she called over her shoulder. Then she lifted her chin and entered the dining hall behind the footman, carrying the tray of silver soup spoons and serving ladle.
“Ah, ladies and gentlemen,” Blake announced from the head of the fine mahogany dining table Sapphire had polished herself the day before. “Please have a seat. I believe dinner is served.”
For the next half hour Sapphire remained occupied following Myra’s explicit directions, serving as Mr. Thixton liked to have his guests served. Though she caught Blake glancing in her direction several times, she did not make eye contact with him. Instead, she concentrated on doing the best job she could, considering that she had never served anyone a meal in her life, never mind in a formal dining atmosphere. As she worked, she kept her eyes and ears open, waiting for an opportunity to dole out a little feminine justice.
Halfway through the meal, she found her chance.
“This truffle sauce is so divine.” Clarice Lawrence poured the last of it from the serving dish onto her plate. “Isn’t there more?” she whined, seated to Blake’s right, in the chair that had originally been intended for her father, according to the place cards she had apparently switched before the guests took their seats.
Myra looked quickly at Sapphire. “Yes, mum,” she announced softly, scooping up the empty tureen from the table. “She’s already eaten half of what Mrs. Porter made, which was ’sposed to be enough for sixteen,” she whispered to Sapphire when she faced the dinner buffet they served from, her back to the guests.
“Perhaps she needs her own portion.”
Myra frowned in confusion as she began to refill the gravy tureen from the covered bowl one of the footmen had brought from the kitchen. “Little Miss Piggy does not get her own,” Myra whi
spered under her breath. “She’s already had quite enough. Have you any idea the cost of them dirty mushrooms?”
“Oh, I think she most definitely needs another helping,” Sapphire whispered back as she snatched a small container from one of the shelves beneath the buffet table and slipped a bottle of specially-made tonic from inside her apron pocket. A quick turn of her wrist, a ladle of truffle sauce swimming with fat, and she slipped the small bowl on a porcelain dish and wiped the lip with her apron.
Without giving Myra time to protest, Sapphire hurried to Clarice’s right side. “Your very own, mum,” she whispered. And with a quick knee bend, she placed the small tureen beside her plate. At the same time, Myra placed the larger gravy tureen at the head of the table.
As Sapphire backed away, Blake caught her eye and, for a moment, she allowed her defiant gaze to meet his. He parted his sensual lips as if to speak to her, but then pressed them together again.
Now who’s being stubborn? she asked herself.
Myra had insisted the tonic she had helped Sapphire concoct would work swiftly, and Sapphire was not disappointed. A fresh Maine blueberry cobbler with cream custard was just being served by Myra’s capable hands while Sapphire reset the table with silver spoons for the last course when Clarice began to perspire and her face began to contort as if she were in great discomfort.
Out of the corner of her eye, Sapphire saw a guest seated beside Clarice clasp her arm and lean toward her to whisper in her ear. Clarice took a sip of water and then rested back in her chair, her forehead beading with sweat. At this point, the other guests knew something was wrong, but they continued their conversations politely, only glancing in Clarice’s direction, then continuing with their exchanges.
From across the table, Myra caught Sapphire’s eye and Sapphire couldn’t tell if the young maid was about to burst into tears or laughter.
“Clarice, dear, are you quite all right?” Patricia Lawrence asked her daughter from across the table.
“I…” Clarice’s face suddenly turned green and she shot up. As she stumbled from the table, nearly kicking over her chair, she reached out to Myra. “The closest necessary,” she groaned, not seeming to care who else heard her.
Myra raced out the door to lead Blake’s guest, and Clarice gathered the folds of her white silk gown in her fists in a most unladylike manner and trotted after Myra. Mrs. Lawrence muttered under her breath to her husband to call for their carriage.
Sapphire had to turn her face away so that no one would see her smirk. But when she turned back, Blake was looking directly at her.
“I should go to her,” Mrs. Lawrence, a pleasant enough, plump woman said with concern in her voice as she rose from her English-made Sheraton dining chair.
